


Forever to Manacor

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, coming out fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over time, Roger and Rafa realise that they don't want to pretend any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To my excellent and hardworking beta committee, best_of_five and jenniebellie, and to buckle_berry for great advice. You all made this fic so much better. ♥♥♥

**INTERVIEW WITH NOVAK DJOKOVIC – CHAMPION AT INDIAN WELLS (def. M. Fish)  
Indian Wells, Sunday 24th March 2008  
  
Q: ** After the US Open last year, you reached the final, and the Australian Open this year, there is a lot of talk about how you might provide the real rivalry with Roger Federer over the next few years rather than Nadal. How do you see the rest of the year going, and do you think you will take the number two ranking this year to really count as a rival to Federer?  
  
 **NOVAK DJOKOVIC:** Well, it’s hard to say how the year will go, you know, for me, except that I want to win, you know. I hope that this year at Roland Garros and Wimbledon will be better for me than last year, when I had to retire in the semifinal for both. I think if I play my best like I did today then I have a chance to win. You know, a lot of people say I can be Federer’s real rival I think because he is friends with Rafa, and it’s hard to be good rivals with a friend. They’re like a little too close, you know what I mean? You know, that’s what I think. But we will see in Roland Garros, maybe Wimbledon this year. There is a long time to go this year.  
  
 **Q:** You say that Roger and Rafa are too close?  
  
 **NOVAK DJOKOVIC:** Yeah. Maybe.  
  
 **Q:** Can you comment on that? How do you think they are too close?  
  
 **NOVAK DJOKOVIC:** (smiling) I just mean, you know, that they are friendly, they hang out. I don’t mean anything really. Just they maybe like each other so it’s hard to really want to beat a guy you like. That’s all.

 

  
 **April 2008**  
  
Clay season is nearing, and it is Roger’s last night in Mallorca. They eat at Las Dores in a leisurely fashion, oil from the mussels on fingers and mouths, a glass or two of wine but no more, they do not want to be sleepy. A short walk to Rafa's house in Porto Cristo, dark and empty and waiting for them. Roger stands for a moment as Rafa opens the door. He looks at the stars, bright in the black sky above, smells the air. The wind is still cool and it smells of the sea, of spring in Mallorca.  
  
"I love this place," he says, and Rafa smiles.  
  
"Of course," he says, shrugging playfully, and he waits for Roger to be ready to come inside.  
  
They close the door and lock it, the silence thick around them as they find each other in the dark, find each other’s mouths with practiced ease, undo familiar buttons and zips and run their hands over skin they know like their own. And yet familiarity does nothing to quell the beat of Roger’s heart, the impatient hitches of his breath; no, he loves this man and pushes into every touch, pushes his body against him, his skin aching for touch. They stumble their way blindly to Rafa’s bedroom, and it smells of fresh cotton and something else, something like sunshine on skin, the smell of Rafa.  
  
He buries his face in that smell, in the curve of Rafa’s neck where those powerful shoulders sweep up and under his hair, and Roger runs his hands along that path till he holds Rafa’s face in his hands. "You," he whispers, punctuating the word with a kiss on Rafa’s soft, wet mouth. "You make me crazy. I count my days from you to you."  
  
Rafa’s arms encircle him, pulling him closer, and they are chest to chest, belly to belly. Their belt buckles clink together. Rafa’s eyes are shadowed, shining in what little moonlight makes its way through the window shutters. "Always come back here," Rafa murmurs into his mouth. His voice is breathy, his lips seeking Roger’s. "Always, okay? You and me."  
  
Roger nods, and they kiss again, desperate and urgent. He feels Rafa’s hands dip below his waistband, gripping his ass with strong fingers and grinding him forward, he feels Rafa’s cock through his jeans, hard against his own. Belts are unbuckled and trousers and shorts fall to the floor, their shoes and socks already kicked off somewhere along the corridor. Roger pulls back the duvet and they tumble into bed, limbs already entangled and their hips moving together, impatient for sensation.  
  


  
 **May 2008**  
  
It is agreed in Roger’s room the evening after the Roland Garros semifinals. Roger sits on the couch, his knee bumping against Rafa’s, who is sitting with one arm along the back of the cushions, his fingers gently resting on Roger’s shoulder. His uncle Toni has taken a chair by the wall. Tony Godsick, Roger’s agent, looks on, nodding, silently agreeing with Benito, who is pacing, gesticulating. Sometimes, he says, searching for the words to explain, sometimes they are just a little… fond. Roger glances at Rafa, who is smiling to himself. He glances up at Roger, something dark and conspiratorial in his eyes. Roger echoes his smile before looking back to Benito.  
  
It is Benito’s idea that there should be articles and photographs.  
  
"It’s necessary?" Roger is serious, businesslike.  
  
Toni says nothing, just shifts in his chair, his arms folded and legs crossed. He looks as if he is courtside. Benito smiles, and Roger thinks that maybe there is a little sadness to it. He shrugs. "I think so," he says, quietly.  
  
Mirka is looking at him, her eyes soft. "That’s why you have me," she says. There is a hush in the room when she says it, as if there is more weight to her words, as if she knows what this involves better than any of them. Roger thinks that maybe she does.  
  
He rests his face in his hands for a moment. When he looks up, Rafa is watching him intently, all traces of a smile gone. "So it will be Xisca?" he asks.  
  
Rafa nods quickly, just once. He looks away.  
  
Roger says nothing. He stares at the carpet, absently rubbing his fingers together. Then he stands up and puts his hands in his pockets, sighing as he does so. "Fine," he says, eventually. It isn’t fine at all.  
  


  
 **Roger Federer Interview  
Sunday, June 8, 2008  
French Open - After 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 loss to Rafael Nadal in the Final**  
  
 **Q.** For what happened, could you name it? This thing that happened today, what is it going to mean for you in the next future?  
  
 **ROGER FEDERER:** I mean, key for me is the way Rafa played. I mean, no doubt he played excellent. He hardly made unforced errors, and when he's on the attack, he's lethal. On the defense, he had some, I mean, unbelievable shots, you know. I can only praise him for the level of play he's had for the last two weeks and today again under pressure. It's not like it's easy for him either. He handles it very well. To come up with a performance like this under pressure shows what a great champion he is. For me, I mean, it's been a good tournament. I still go out of this tournament, you know, with a positive mindset. You know, not with a mindset. Oh my God, you know, I had no chance today. I mean, I had a little chance in the second set. Okay. But, you know, it doesn't matter now. I mean, I'm going to look forward to grass. I think the second half of the season, hopefully, is going to be better than the first.  
  


  
 **June 2008  
Roland Garros, Paris**  
  
Roger is slowly packing his things, having returned to the locker room after his presser. He’s taken to giving his pressers quickly after a match, getting them over with; he has less patience now, and wants the questions asked and answered quickly. He even means most of the things he says. Then he returns to the locker room to pack his things slowly and neatly, allowing his irritation to fade as he sits on a bench and stretches out his neck and his legs and his fingers, as he rolls his socks into balls and puts them in the right pocket of his bag, as he folds his shirts and his shorts and arranges his rackets. Only then is he ready to leave.  
  
Just as he is about to heave his racket bag onto his shoulder, Rafa slips into the locker room, his eyebrows drawn and serious, his stride purposeful. He comes to a halt when he sees Roger. "Rogelio," he says, and it seems an age since they saw each other off court, though it has only been two days.  
  
They gravitate towards each other as if pulled by some magnetic force, until they find themselves in each other’s arms. They do not kiss, not yet; Roger simply wants to grasp Rafa in his hands, feel his strength and his solidity against his own body. "Are you finished your press?" he asks, and he realises he doesn’t know the time, doesn’t know how long Mirka has been waiting for him the lounge, how many coffees his father will have had by now, how soon they’re supposed to have dinner.  
  
"Sí," says Rafa, and Roger knows the look in his eyes, unsure and hesitant, though they’ve beaten each other so often now. It’s always the same.  
  
"Rafa," says Roger, running his hands up the curve of Rafa’s biceps, fingers straying to his face, outlining the shape of Rafa’s mouth, watching his lips part at his touch. "Don’t worry about it."  
  
"Why did you not fight harder, Roger?" asks Rafa, his voice breathy and his body already aroused. Roger can see him getting annoyed at himself. He knows the set of Rafa’s mouth when he wants to talk, but Roger doesn’t want to talk at all.  
  
"You’re just too good, okay?" Roger cants his hips a little, allowing Rafa to feel his hardness. Again that annoyed scrunch of Rafa’s nose, that comical eyebrow pushed into a frown.  
  
"I didn’t want to—" begins Rafa, but Roger cuts him short with his fingertips pressing against his lips. He lets his other hand wander down Rafa’s side, his thin t-shirt no disguise for the hard muscle underneath, for the contradiction that is Rafa’s body. Rafa is curvy and responsive and yet so, so male. Roger can feel his cock beginning to harden, can see his desire in the darkening of his eyes. He palms Rafa’s ass through his shorts, squeezes a little, slipping the tips of his fingers against the centre seam. Rafa’s breath becomes thicker in his throat.  
  
"It doesn’t matter," whispers Roger. "It really doesn’t matter, okay?" he says, and while he says it he works his hand inside the back of Rafa’s shorts, his palm right against the cheek of Rafa’s ass, full and round and smooth in his hand. He feels Rafa clench, and grinds his hips. Rafa is hard now, as hard as he is, and Roger drags him out of view of the doorway, back into an empty shower stall, where the light is low and mottled and they can remain undiscovered, should someone look for them. Roger pushes Rafa against the wall, his fingers slipping between his ass cheeks. Rafa gasps and finally gives in, his hands curling against Roger’s arms, pulling him closer and kissing him; no gentle kiss, no introduction, but headlong into passion. Rafa does not do this by halves. Roger strips off Rafa’s shirt and Rafa pulls at his and soon they are discarded, lying crumpled on the wet ground. Rafa kicks off his shoes while Roger kisses his neck, eliciting whimpers from Rafa that he muffles with his palm. Rafa groans and jerks his hips and somehow the water gets turned on, and once the shock has passed, Roger realises it is warm, not cold, and grins as it runs down his face. Rafa laughs, running his hands over Roger’s newly wet skin, tangling his fingertips in the trail of hair on his belly, and palms Roger’s cock through his shorts.  
  
Roger needs this after he has been beaten, needs it more than Rafa ever does. Needs to take control again, needs to feel this body under his hands, his tongue, his cock, all of him taking control of Rafa, who is already shut-eyed and panting against the wall. He roughly turns him around, using his fingers to get him ready, reaching for the soap in the dispenser by the shower control, and slicking himself up.  
  
Only when he is inside Rafa, only when he feels the rhythm of their movement and hears the sound of Rafa's moaning echoing against the tiles, does he forget the court and the score and the press. When he is inside Rafa, nothing else matters.  
  


  
**People  
Monday, 23rd June 2008  
  
Tennis Hotshot Rafael Nadal Has a Secret Girlfriend**   
  
_Wimbledon is about to begin – but female fans of Rafael Nadal have one less reason to cheer this year.  
  
Turns out the supposedly single tennis ace has a long-running love match with a girl from his hometown of Majorca. In fact, the 22-year-old has reportedly been dating Maria Francisca Perello for three years – and the two were recently photographed frolicking in the surf._   
  


  
**July 2008**  
  
He did not count on losing Wimbledon and seeing those beach photos two days later. He did not count on that at all. When his phone rings and he sees Rafa’s name, he tosses it aside and lets it ring out every time, until it stops ringing altogether. He trains in Dubai, a punishing schedule under the hot sun, and at the end of each day he falls into bed, splayed out across the mattress as if he has no thoughts of leaving room for anyone else.  
  
He always wakes up on his side of the bed.  
  


  
 **August 2008  
Toronto**  
  
Roger is the first to break the silence. He does so with a text, short, terse: "Come to my suite."  
  
He says nothing when he opens the door, just turns his back to Rafa and walks back into the room. It is cool and spacious in the penthouse, everything a neutral cream. He has left his gear in a bag by the window, ready for training in the morning, but there is nothing else of his in the living area. Nothing personal.  
  
Rafa stands far enough inside to let the door close, but no further.  
  
"So you brought Xisca?" says Roger, finally, without turning around. He can hear Rafa behind him, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.  
  
"Yes," says Rafa. "Like last year. She come with me."  
  
Roger exhales sharply, a cynical sound. "Like last year," he echoes. He turns around. "Not really like last year, Rafa, don’t you think?"  
  
Rafa’s face is shut down, blank. Roger hates his face like that. "Roger," Rafa says, but the he stops.  
  
"What, Rafa?" asks Roger. He makes no effort to say it kindly.  
  
Rafa’s brow is furrowed, the way it is when he’s trying to think of the right words. "I don’t know what you want," he says, eventually. "I say to you at Wimbledon, you gonna be okay? You say yes but you don’t talk to me, not till now."  
  
Roger looks away at that, down at the carpet.  
  
Rafa continues. "I call you, I don’t know, ten, twenty times. You no answer, no? So yes, I bring her. She ask me to come, I bring her."  
  
His words hang in the silence. Roger watches him. Rafa’s his face is hard now, determined, that set to his jaw that he gets on court. Roger has to look away.  
  
"I hate those pictures," says Roger, half to himself. He sees them again in his mind, Rafa smiling, swimming, holding her in the waves.  
  
Rafa mutters something in Spanish, something Roger half recognises as a curse. "You agreed," he says. "You say do it. Everyone say. If we want, if we want this, you and me, then is necessary, no?"  
  
"Necessary?" repeats Roger.  
  
"Sí!" Rafa looks half incredulous that he has to explain this, and half plain pissed off. "You see the photos of Wimbledon? Of you and me, after the match?" Roger shakes his head. He never looked. "Our faces, Rogelio," continues Rafa. "No one who see these pictures could not know. No one. Benito say, we must get photos with Xisca now, or else everybody will know, no?"  
  
"Benito says too much," says Roger. "It’s stupid, Rafa, I hate this, I hate if this is the way it has to be." His feelings are in turmoil, anger and determination mixed up in his belly. Love is in there too, somewhere, making his fist clench and his throat tighten. "Tell her to go home."  
  
"Roger," says Rafa, quietly, placatingly. "This is usual, no? She just here with my team. Is not real."  
  
"But I’m tired of this!" Roger is almost shouting, not placated at all. He’s pacing a bit, his hands making gestures and he feels a little out of control, a little hysterical, and he hates it. He takes a breath and tries to ground himself, tries to focus. "Look," he says, more calmly now, but still with an edge to his voice betraying his tight control. "I want you. All of you, no hiding, no faking, no Mirka or Xisca." As soon as the words come out of his mouth he stops, lets Rafa hear them, understand them fully. He has never said it before, not like that, not so clearly. "That’s what I want," he says. He means to deliver it like an ultimatum, but it comes out instead a rough whisper, a plea. He grits his teeth.  
  
Rafa says nothing. He seems to search Roger’s eyes for some hint as to how to understand him, some direction, but does not appear to find any. "We can’t—" He shakes his head tightly. "We can’t do that, you know we can’t."  
  
Roger feels crazy, feels as if he’s been possessed by a clarity he has never before experienced. "Why not?" he says. "I mean, why not, you know? Is it gonna make us bad at tennis? Is it gonna mean we win less?" He waits, staring at Rafa for some kind of answer.  
  
Again Rafa shakes his head. "No," he says uncertainly. "Maybe. I don’t know, no? No one is afraid of Gasquet."  
  
"That has nothing to do with his boyfriend," says Roger. "That’s because he doesn’t think properly. Not like you. Not like me."  
  
Rafa looks stricken. "No, Rogi," he says. "I will tell Xisca, I say her go back to Mallorca. But not this, I think… I don’t think I can do this."  
  
Roger looks at him, deflated. "Okay," he says, flatly. "No, I know. You’re right. It’s stupid." He sighs, shaking his head. He looks away from Rafa, towards the window, his eyes meaninglessly scanning the city view, seeing nothing. "Forget I said it."  
  
Rafa nods, putting his hands in his back pockets.  
  
"Call me when you’ve told her," says Roger, quietly. "We can, I don’t know, meet up again or something. Talk some more." Rafa’s eyes are bruised with hurt, but Roger cannot find the will to care. Not just now. He shrugs and turns away. "See you later, Rafa," he says.  
  
Rafa says nothing. Roger hears the door open and shut again. He exhales slowly, his muscles a knot of tension. He digs his phone out of his pocket and turns it off, throwing it on the coffee table before retreating to the bedroom and trying to sleep.  
  


  
 **May 2007  
Paris**  
  
Mirka found out like this.  
  
It had not been long, only a few months that they had been doing this, but they already had a system. Eyes catching across the locker room meant take your time getting dressed, and more often than not they’d end up stealing hand jobs in the showers. A simple "see you later" meant "visit me tonight". Then there were texts and phonecalls, private jokes and quiet endearments that seemed to sneak into their communication without either of them noticing until they were a fixture. Now and then they’d even have dinner together under the guise of discussing ATP matters or simple friendship. It was all anything but simple.  
  
But this was simple. One night, when Mirka was out with friends in Paris, just before Roland Garros began, they had a rare chance for languorous sex in the lengthening twilight of a May evening. So often they had to make do with frantic liaisons, fear always lurking that they would be found out, but this time they took their time, lingering over each other’s bodies with singular care, caressing with hands and mouths, kissing and licking and sucking. It was exquisite, and by the time Roger had Rafa’s knees slung over his shoulders, long, paced thrusts driving deep inside him, they were both so close that they could hardly stand it. They came in long drawn out gasps, Rafa’s moans filling the room, almost shouting as he came in spurts over his own belly. Roger collapsed into Rafa’s arms, his strength dissipated, his skin still hungry for contact. Rafa nuzzled into his hair, tiny sounds of contentment escaping his lips.  
  
And then they fell asleep. That was all it took.  
  


  
 **August 2008  
Beijing**  
  
Jet lag wakes Roger at unexpected hours in Beijing, hours through which he usually sleeps. He hears the city wake up, smells the morning over his mug of coffee as he leans his elbows on the railing of his veranda. His suite overlooks a quiet courtyard. Trickling water echoes from one corner and the silent hush of a tranquil morning haze rises with the rising sun. Morning fades from dusky pink to yellow, and though the air is still cool at this hour he can feel the rising heat on stone and lacquer. He can hear the first stirrings of breakfast preparation from the restaurant courtyards, though the hour is the only clue that it is breakfast being prepared. The exotic smells of a Chinese morning drown out the smell of croissants.  
  
He is playing James Blake today.  
  
These delicate early mornings take their toll; by the time he gets into the taxi for the drive to the tennis centre, sleepiness overcomes him and he dozes all the way.  
  
Centre court looms like an angular hulk over the rest of the tennis centre. The flat pavement seems vast around it, its punctuation of sparse new planting emphasising rather than disguising the vacant landscape. Roger’s taxi stops near the entrance, and he has just shaken the sleep from his head and smoothed back his hair when he sees Rafa in the distance, making use of the pavement to zoom along on his Segway. He is smiling like a kid, and it’s almost contagious. Roger looks away and takes his time retrieving his racket bag from the trunk of the cab. When he looks up, Rafa is just dismounting, shucking his racket bag more firmly onto his shoulder, the grin fading from his face. It becomes something different, a fond sort of smile, and Roger smiles back. They walk together into the tennis centre, and they do not move away when their arms bump against each other as they open the door to the locker room. There are plenty of people already there. Novak Djokovic glances over at them and gives them a nod of greeting. His eyes linger on them momentarily, a curious expression on his face, before he turns away. Some of the French guys are laughing, loud in the echoing surroundings.  
  
"Xisca is not here," says Rafa quietly.  
  
"I know," replies Roger. He holds Rafa’s gaze for a moment, their eyes locked, some kind of energy flowing between them, some kind of understanding.  
  
"She has a boyfriend." He looks down, smiling a little. "A real one. She not gonna do photos or anything like this again."  
  
Roger nods slowly. "Good," he says quietly, looking away.  
  
"And anyway, I no ask her anymore," says Rafa. He looks abashed, looks like he's muddled his thoughts and is trying to articulate them but cannot find the right words.  
  
Roger presses his lips together. "Okay," he says. Now is not the time for this. He looks once more at Rafa, in his eyes a silent goodbye, and just as he turns to go, Rafa reaches out and holds his arm. Roger freezes, and there is something like fear in Rafa’s eyes as he glances around to see who might see, but a certain defiance also. He presses his fingers into Roger’s skin. "I see you later, no?" he says, his voice quiet but not a whisper.  
  
Roger just nods. He is too surprised to smile. "Yeah," he says. "I’ll call you."  
  
They turn away to separate sections of the locker room, just one brief glance back, and no one seems to have noticed anything at all.  
  


  
 **May 2007  
Paris**  
  
Rafa did not wake up when she came into the bedroom, but Roger did. She leaned against the door, her hair loose around her shoulders, her legs crossed, the straps of her handbag twisted around her left wrist. There was a look on her face half way between resignation and fondness.  
  
She left the room, a pointed glance behind her as she turned.  
  
Roger dressed quickly, quietly, cleaning off in the bathroom before pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt. The t-shirt was Rafa’s, which he had pulled on absently, and he did not take the time to change. Rafa still slept softly on the bed, his arm thrown across a pillow as if Roger still lay there.  
  
She was sitting on the couch, and she’d poured herself a glass of wine from the minibar. She wasn’t drunk, but she was relaxed, a little tired. He sat across from her in the armchair, elbows on his knees and face resting in his hands.  
  
"It’s Rafa," she said.  
  
Roger nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry he’s still here. I guess we fell asleep."  
  
She looked at him, her head against her hand. The light was low. She had switched on just one lamp on the sideboard.  
  
"That’s not like you," she said, quietly. She took a sip of her wine.  
  
He shook his head. He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. "I know," he said. "Rafa is…" He searched for a word, cast about for something, anything that could encompass Rafa. He came up empty. "Rafa is different," he said, settling.  
  
Mirka looked at him curiously. "You’ve fallen for him?" she said.  
  
Roger shrugged, defensive, suddenly, as if showing too much of his hand, as if he wasn’t ready to think about that himself, yet. He rubbed his face in his hands. "Maybe," he said, and then he breathed out a laugh. "Yeah."  
  
She smiled. Perhaps he saw a glimmer of sadness in her eyes, but he could not be sure. She looked towards the window. It had begun to rain, and rivulets ran down the glass in mistimed rushes, catching the orange streetlights from below.  
  
"Remember when you first met me, Mirka?" he said to her. He shifted place and sat beside her, lying against her, and stretching his legs out in from of him on the couch. She put her arm around him, her fingers – a woman’s fingers, so different – resting at his temples, threading through his hair.  
  
"Mmm hmm," she said, quietly.  
  
"How did you, you know, know?" He did not have to explain.  
  
He felt her sigh, heard her throat as she drank. "This question again?" she said, though she was not as tired of it as she pretended.  
  
He nodded. "You never really tell me," he said. "You always say it was just a feeling, a hunch, or something."  
  
"It was," she said. "That’s what it was."  
  
"Yes, but why?" He almost sounded petulant. "Tell me the reason."  
  
He felt her look at him, resting her cheek against his head. "Well," she began. "It was nothing stupid, like your hair or your clothes or anything. You had terrible hair then anyway." She laughed quietly, and he felt it in her chest. "It was the way you lit up around other men. Marat, I remember your face when you looked at Marat. And Andy Roddick, too. You looked…" she hesitated, and he felt her consider her words. "You looked as if you couldn’t look enough."  
  
He remembered. He was young, surrounded for the first time by men, not boys.  
  
"And when you looked at me, it wasn’t the same, you know?" She kissed the top of his head, maternal. "But the idea of you, I found you interesting."  
  
"But why did you…" he trailed away, shrugging.  
  
"Look, it wasn’t altruism, you know?," she said, something tougher in her voice, now. "I’m good at this, good at working with you. And you need a cover, and I’m good at that, too."  
  
"You are," he said, agreeing. "You are good at everything. Good for me."  
  
"So you have your men, and I have mine, and we take care of each other, right?" She was talking low, her voice intimate, her arm around his chest. His fingers were threaded between hers.  
  
He nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. He watched the rain. "That’s right."  
  
He didn’t tell her, not yet, that he didn’t think there would be other men. Not anymore. They stayed like that, just the two of them, for a few minutes, until he turned and kissed her on the cheek. "I’m going back to bed," he said, pushing himself up from the couch. He stood, and touched her shoulder as he walked by.  
  
He heard her bedroom door close as he curled up once more in Rafa’s arms.  
  


  
**LA Times  
14th August 2008  
Top-seeded Roger Federer loses to James Blake**   
  
_Roger Federer's Olympic moment was, for the third time, a glum one.  
  
The world's No. 1 player, currently going through a rocky streak, was upset in the quarterfinals of the Olympic tournament here Thursday night by American James Blake.  
  
Blake won, 6-4, 7-6 (2), marking the first time he had ever beaten Federer, although he had always gone into the matches with an upbeat attitude.  
  
"The results haven't been good," he said, "but I've always felt I could win."  
  
Federer, No. 1 in the world for most of the last four years and the owner of 12 Grand Slam titles, second only to Pete Sampras' 14, will lose his No. 1 ranking to Rafael Nadal next week. Federer has not won a major title this year and had looked on the Olympics as a steppingstone for saving his year here, and at the upcoming U.S. Open._   
  


  
Winning with Stan after losing to Blake is an almost impossible redemption, an escape with which Roger is unfamiliar. When he loses, he cannot imagine another step on the court; when he returns, he cannot imagine how he could have got here, how they let him pass. And with Stan at his side, solid and dependable in his presence, if not in his game, Roger feels rising in his chest a kind of glee, the giddy high of impossible escape. And so he plays on, each shot one more step away from the oblivion of defeat.  
  
And after the match, before his muscles start to ache, before tiredness overtakes elation, he and Stan laugh their way to the locker rooms. The locker room is quiet at this hour, not too many now left in the competition, and the facilities large and comfortable, banks of lockers creating almost private spaces for groups of players. He and Stan have lockers in a corner near the showers.  
  
Stan is on the phone, half hidden by his locker door. His voice is low and intimate and excited and happy all at the same time. Roger doesn’t mean to listen, he really doesn’t, but he hears Stan say "Marcos" in a voice almost cracking with emotion, and that is when he turns abruptly and pretends he needs to shave over by the sinks near the shower stalls. He can’t hear Stan’s voice from there.  
  
He returns when he is sure Stan is off the phone, when he is just about to pick up his bag and leave. Stan looks at him thankfully. "That was Marcos," he says. "His wrist is getting better."  
  
Roger nods. "That’s good," he says, packing his razor into his shaving bag. "I bet he wishes he was here, huh?"  
  
Stan sighs. "Yeah. You know, he’s okay. He’s training now. He’ll be in the US."  
  
"That’s good," says Roger again, smiling. He doesn’t know what else to say.  
  
"But his girlfriend will be coming, so…" Stan stops himself, abruptly. His face reddens and his eyes seek anything to latch on to, his hand running nervously through his hair.  
  
Roger stills, straightening up. He can see the fall of Stan’s shoulders, the sadness in his face. "How do you do it?" he asks, carefully.  
  
Stan looks at him now. "Do what?"  
  
"His girlfriend. See them together. How do you, you know, deal with that?" He slides his wristband over his hand.  
  
Stan regards him quizzically. "It’s sport, Roger. Always the way it is, isn’t it? Never let anyone know, always have a girlfriend. Those are the rules."  
  
Roger throws down his wristband. "Those are stupid rules," he says.  
  
Stan frowns. He leans against his locker. "Who?" he asks, quietly.  
  
Roger rubs his face. "I don’t know if…" he says, and then he shakes his head. He looks up at Stan. "Rafa," he says. "It’s Rafa. Or at least it was. If I haven't messed it up."  
  
Stan raises his eyebrows. "Wow," he says. "I can see how that would be tough."  
  
"Yeah," says Roger. "Yeah, sometimes it’s tough. Recently it's been tough. But the rest of the time…" He smiles. Stan smiles with him, understanding.  
  
"I know," he says.  
  
"It shouldn’t be this way, Stan," said Roger. "It makes no sense to me."  
  
Stan shrugs, no longer smiling. "I don’t think things will change very soon. Not while everyone thinks being an athlete is about money and cars and beautiful women."  
  
"But how will it change," says Roger, musingly, "if we don’t change it?"  
  
Stan folds his arms. "You would do that?" he says. "Rafa would?"  
  
Roger’s face clouds over. "I don’t know about Rafa. I would. I should." He sighs. "Sometimes I see photos of me and Rafa and I don’t know how the whole world hasn’t figured it out already. I guess they just don’t expect to see it, so they don’t see it."  
  
"That’s what helps us hide," says Stan, frowning. "Are you serious? You would make it public?"  
  
Roger chews a fingernail. "Yeah," he says. He nods. "Yeah, I think I would. But it’s not just up to me."  
  
Stan chews his lip, regarding Roger for a moment. "No, it’s not," he says. "Go talk to Rafa."  
  
Roger nods thoughtfully. "Yeah," he says. "After the presser. Let’s go."  
  
They pack quickly. Roger can feel Stan’s eyes on him now and again, as if judging the measure of him anew. He imagines such a reassessment in the eyes of the world, and wonders if he could take it, if Rafa could. But underneath the doubt, he can feel a sort of certainty. He wonders if Rafa could feel the same.  
  


 

 **INTERVIEW  
15th August 2008  
BEIJING, CHINA  
FEDERER-WAWRINKA/Bryan-Bryan  
7-6, 6-4  
  
Q. ** Stan, when you're on court, people are asking Roger to marry them. They ask for his autograph when you leave the court. Do you feel like you're just the other guy? Is that pressure on you?  
  
 **STANISLAS WAWRINKA:** No, I don't care. It's normal, you know. Roger for me is the best player ever in the world. I am just the No. 10. That is good for me. But, you know, it's normal all the people wants Roger and not me.  
  
 **Q:** And Roger, how do you feel out there with people asking you this, to marry you, all of it?  
  
 **ROGER FEDERER:** (smiling) I don’t know about marriage, you know, but I’m definitely taken, so I’ve got to say no every time.  
  


  
They assume he means Mirka.


	2. Chapter 2

He pulls his hat down, pulls his collar up, and prepares to run the gauntlet of the Olympic Village. He keeps his eyes to the ground, finds his way with glances only, and though he feels eyes on his back and heads turn as he passes, he continues on, weaving his way towards the Spanish section. He can smell food from various hospitality tents that he passes, and outside the Dutch tent he nearly gets soaked in a swill of beer as he rounds a corner too quickly. In the dark corners he sees bodies pressed against each other, mouths open and panting, pent up want being spent in desperation. He ignores all of it, focuses only on his destination.  
  
Mirka mentioned Rafa’s apartment number days before. He can’t remember the context now – perhaps there was none, she knows him well – but he remembers it. He raises his hand and knocks on the door.  
  
Rafa opens the door, his clothes rumpled, his hair a mess.  
  
"You’ve been sleeping," says Roger. It is late. He had not thought of that.  
  
Rafa shakes his head. "No, I just rest," he says.  
  
Roger is sure he’s lying, but he takes it as the truth. Rafa stands back from the door and he steps inside, looking around in the gloom.  
  
Rafa closes the door and flicks on the light switch. "Tommy is not here," he says. He seems slightly embarrassed to mention it.  
  
Roger nods. He inhales as if to speak, but words fail him all of a sudden, and he finds himself fidgeting with his hat, taking it off and twisting it in his hands. "Rafa," he says.  
  
Across the room, still standing near the door, Rafa says nothing. He looks deliciously unkempt, Roger thinks, and he feels the pull between them, the draw that always brings him back to Rafa’s arms. Not yet, he says to himself. Not yet.  
  
"Rafa," he says again. "I’m sorry, okay?"  
  
Rafa shrugs. "Sorry for why, Rogelio?" he says. His hands are deep in the pockets of his sweatpants, and his t-shirt gapes at the neck.  
  
"Sorry for being angry about Xisca." He shrugs helplessly. "I know I agreed to it. I know it wasn’t real."  
  
Rafa steps towards him, something softening in his face. "Of course it was not real, Rogelio," he says, and Roger loves that name in Rafa’s mouth. "Is just for the press, no? Of course just for them."  
  
"You didn’t have to make it look so real, you know?" says Roger. He throws his hat on the couch, exasperated. "I don’t want to see you kissing her, kissing anyone. Anyone but me."  
  
Rafa looks down to his feet, and back up at Roger. He looks serious. "You think I like kissing her?" he asks. "You think is fun for me, to pretend?" He shakes his head, his nose crinkling a little. "I hate it too, the pretend," he says, quietly. "I think of you all the time in Mallorca. All the time I wish you were there. I call you, but no answer."  
  
Roger feels himself crumpling, his breath ragged with such raw feeling. "I couldn’t answer," he says, and his voice sounds strangled. "I wanted to talk to you, you know, I really wanted to. But it was too much, the final and then the photos. I didn’t know what to say."  
  
Rafa steps closer to him, so close that he is in his space, and Roger imagines he can feel the heat from his body. His mind is suddenly flooded with images of Rafa alone after Wimbledon, alone in his victory, exhausted and spent and having to perform for the paparazzi, when Roger had disappeared from the eyes of the press, escaped to Dubai. Trying to speak to the one person he could fully share his Wimbledon with but unable to reach him. He feels his throat tighten. What if Rafa had done the same to him a year before? What if Rafa had cut him off when they had really just begun because of that final?  
  
Rafa takes his hand, winding their fingers together. "I miss you a lot, Rogi," he says, and the pure simplicity of it is too much for Roger. He blindly finds Rafa’s mouth with his own, the kiss sudden and messy but totally heartfelt. Rafa’s arms close around him, holding him in their solid strength, and he takes Rafa’s face between his hands.  
  
"I’m so sorry, Raf," he says, his voice nothing but an exhalation.  
  
Rafa’s eyes are still closed, and he is tasting the kiss, savouring it, his lower lip sucked into his mouth. "Me, I am sorry, too," he says, equally ragged. He does not wait to say more but kisses Roger again, as if that first taste after so long has renewed his desire. They stumble against the wall, blindly groping and kissing and pushing against each other, their bodies finding familiar shapes, familiar movements. Roger feels himself relax as if in one great sigh, as if he has fallen back to where he belongs, having been gone for too long.  
  


 

**USOpen.org  
22nd August 2008  
  
Rafa-Roger Rivalry Hyped at Grapple in the Apple  
by Jason Brown**  
  
 _New York – A fitting finale to a year that has featured an epic Wimbledon final for the ages and a change at the top of the men’s rankings after a historic run of dominance, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal are eager to test their rivalry at the biggest tennis championship, the US Open.  
  
"This is a big moment for all of us," said Federer, the four-time defending US Open champion.  
  
"This is what it’s all about, to come to the greatest city in the world to play tennis," he added. "There is such great excitement about this tournament and this rivalry. We hope that it can live up to expectations and battle it out in the final."  
  
Nadal, who recently won a gold medal for Spain at the Olympics in Beijing, said that he has been inspired to perform at his best over the years because of Federer.  
  
"All these years I’ve always had one person ahead of me and better than me," said Nadal._  
  


 

"Isnt’ this great?" says Roger, grinning. They’re due to go on stage any moment.  
  
Rafa squirms a little. "You think so?" He pulls at the collar of his shirt.  
  
Roger looks at him, disbelieving. "Sure! Don King, you know? This is amazing."  
  
Rafa looks like he’s missing something. "Grapple?" he says, squinting. "I never hear this word."  
  
"It means, to fight or, you know, to wrestle." Roger tucks some of Rafa’s hair behind his ears as he speaks. "You really need to cut this again."  
  
Rafa raises an eyebrow. "We gonna wrestle, Rogelio?" he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. He leans towards Roger as he says it, almost imperceptibly, but it is enough.  
  
Roger smiles, forgetting Rafa’s hair and running his fingers against his cheek instead. "Maybe tonight, yeah?"  
  
Rafa nods, grinning, anticipation already darkening his eyes. "For sure."  
  
Roger feels the world narrowing in that moment, as if they both forget where they are. He feels the pull of a kiss, the draw that could bring their mouths together, but just at that moment the producer places her hand on Rafa’s shoulder and directs him onstage.  
  


 

 **INTERVIEW WITH ROGER FEDERER – US OPEN CHAMPION (def. A Murray)  
Flushing Meadows, Monday 8th September, 2008.  
  
Q: ** Novak Djokovic has in the past claimed in an interview that your relationship with Nadal is too close for a real rivalry. Nadal has said that he believes a rivalry should stay on the court. What is your response to those who say you are too cosy with your closest rival?  
  
 **ROGER FEDERER:** Cosy?  
  
 **Q:** Close, friendly.  
  
 **ROGER FEDERER:** Look, Novak is not the first person to say that, to be honest. We can play great tennis on court but that doesn’t mean we want to beat each other off court, too. Rafa is a good friend, you know? There’s no reason we wouldn’t be good friends. Maybe other guys get a bit jealous of Rafa, you know, because he’s staying at the top even with injuries last year after the US Open, he’s not losing the number two spot to Novak because he won so many titles this year, you know, and now of course he’s number one. So they say these things. But really, to say that, it’s meaningless.  
  


 

 **October 2008**  
  
Rafa has rented an apartment in Madrid, and Roger has rented the one across the hall. They are in Rafa’s apartment now, and Benito is sitting with his head in his hands.  
  
"Across the hall?" he says. "Too close, Roger." He looks up, his hands pressed together in front of his face as if in prayer.  
  
Roger shrugs. He glances at Rafa, who has paused in the process of hooking up his playstation to the television. Rafa rolls his eyes and gets back to it. "It’s close to the club," says Roger. "No one is going to be suspicious."  
  
Benito looks faintly appalled. "You have seen the newspapers, yes? Articles on the internet? The way they write about the two of you now. Always Rafa and Roger, Roger and Rafa." He spreads his hands, a gesture of helplessness. "Not long before someone realises. Puts it on a blog. People start watching more carefully. Then what?"  
  
Roger sees Tony Godsick share a glance with Mirka. "It would not be good for your image, Roger," he says delicately. He is less animated than Benito, a little more diplomatic, but no less determined.  
  
Mirka says nothing. He feels her eyes on him.  
  
He balances his bottle of water on the arm of the chair, finding the ring of condensation and replacing it precisely. He smiles to himself. "My image," he says, as if weighing the words in his mouth. Rafa quits messing with cables and sits back on his heels. "Look," says Roger. "Rafa and me, we play the best tennis in the world. I have a lot of money. Rafa has a lot of money. Rumours won’t change any of that." He flicks his hair away from his eyes. "They don’t make us play bad. They won’t make us broke."  
  
"What are you saying?" says Mirka, speaking at last.  
  
Roger looks at her, returning her gaze. "I mean, rumours can’t hurt us," he says. "Who cares about rumours?"  
  
"Sponsors," says Benito. "Sponsors care."  
  
Roger shakes his head. "Nike won’t pull out because of stupid rumours," he says dismissively.  
  
"They won’t say it," says Benito. "But you don’t know that."  
  
"Fine. If they do, we’ll find something else to wear." Roger knows he is being abrasive, that these people are simply expressing concern. He doesn’t care. "I’ve had enough," he says.  
  
Benito translates for Toni, with obvious exasperation. Toni purses his lips, the way he might if Rafa had made a great shot or a terrible one. Roger cannot tell which.  
  
Rafa is sitting crosslegged on the ground beside him now, lost in thought. Roger leans forward and brushes his fingers gently on Rafa’s shoulder. Rafa looks up at him, pressing Roger’s hand with his own.  
  
When Roger looks up, Toni is watching them speculatively.  
  
Benito sighs. "Rafa," he says. "What do you think?"  
  
Toni shifts in his seat, and Rafa glances over to him. Roger still cannot read the silent communication between them.  
  
Rafa clears his throat. "I agree with Roger," he says. He is still looking thoughtful, his gaze far away. "This pretend, I no like it. We gonna do that no more."  
  
"Okay, okay," says Benito quickly, as if placating an adversary. "But that doesn’t mean you have to be obvious, either, okay?"  
  
Rafa looks at him coldly. "Is still pretend," he says, and it’s almost an accusation.  
  
Benito runs his hands through his hair, then turns and silently appeals to Tony Godsick for help.  
  
"It’s just being discreet," says Tony. His diplomacy is grating on Roger. "It’s just while you’re on the tour. After that, after you retire, you have nothing to worry about."  
  
Rafa laughs, though without humour. "That is years, no? I think years."  
  
Roger shakes his head. "I don’t care if it’s just weeks," he says. "It’s too long."  
  
He looks at Rafa, and they hold each others’ gazes. He doesn’t need to speak to ask the question. Rafa’s face darkens a little, and he frowns, though more in thought than in disagreement. Roger looks around at the confused expressions around the room, and back to Rafa. "Rafa," he says, and he says it as if there is no one else near them. "It’s too long."  
  
Rafa nods, his face clearing. "Sí," he says. He takes a deep breath, one eyebrow raising, as if he’s come to a decision. He looks around the room, and Roger follows his gaze to find Toni watching them, inscrutable as ever, but with the ghost of a smile forming on his face.  
  
Rafa smiles back at his uncle, and then up at Roger. "We stop pretending?" he says, and his face is so open at that moment that Roger longs to reach for him and kiss him. He refrains, and instead shares his smile.  
  
"You’re okay with that now?" he asks.  
  
Rafa nods slowly. He looks so trusting. "Yeah, is okay."  
  
"Okay," says Roger. A wave of deep contentment seems to fill him. "We stop pretending." They grin at each other.  
  
The rest of the room is deathly silent. After a moment or two, Roger manages to tear his gaze away from Rafa’s face to assess the reactions of the teams. Benito and Tony Godsick look as if they are waiting for the punchline, the assurance that this is all some big joke. Mirka and Toni, though, they are smiling, their eyes warm and happy, and Roger is overcome with gratitude for this woman who has brought him so far, and Rafa's strange but loving coach.  
  
He laughs, and turns back to Rafa, allowing himself now that kiss, a chaste meeting of lips. Rafa grins in return. "Will be better now, no?" he whispers.  
  
Roger nods. "Yes. It will be so much better," he says, and it really will.  
  


 

Roger asks him later, when everyone is gone. It’s still warm in Madrid, warm enough when they’re wearing sweatshirts, anyway, so they are on the balcony, where they can see the city but it cannot see them, watching the purple fall of evening. Rafa leans his elbows on the wrought iron railing, and Roger leans against him, arms around his waist and his chin hooked over his shoulder.  
  
Rafa laughs when he first asks, and says yes as part of the joke, but Roger is serious. "It’s not a joke," he says, murmuring in Rafa’s ear. "We should do it."  
  
Rafa turns his head, his lips moving against Roger’s cheek when he speaks. "You think so?" he says, serious now, quizzical.  
  
"We are not going to pretend any more," says Roger. "We will be together, you and me. And also—" He pauses. "And also, I love you."  
  
He feels Rafa melt against him, his eyes sliding shut, and when he opens them again he is looking straight at Roger. "I love you too, Rogelio," he says. They leave the words there, entangled between them for a moment, before Rafa speaks again. "But you really want to marry me?"  
  
Roger smiles, snuggling closer to Rafa, holding him tighter. "How many times do I have to ask you, hmm?" he says. He kisses Rafa’s cheek, his lips soft and wet. "You want to make a guy beg?"  
  
Rafa shrugs, half smiling. He nuzzles against Roger’s face. "No, not you," he says. "Anyway, I already say yes, no?"  
  
"Yes, no, yes, no," mimicks Roger, running his palm along Rafa’s arm until their fingers are intertwined. "How do I know what to believe?" He moves to one side, holding Rafa in his arms, and he kisses him, his mouth invading his heat, his taste. He pulls back, gazing into his eyes, dark in the twilight. "Are you going to marry me, or not?"  
  
Rafa smiles. His face creases into dimples and laughter lines, and he looks breathtakingly beautiful, Roger thinks. He looks so beautiful. "Rogelio, this is…" Rafa makes huge shapes with his hands, his eyes wide. "I can’t believe you ask me this."  
  
Roger stays still. He rubs his nose against Rafa’s and then pulls back, keeping their eyes fixed on each other. "I asked you, Rafa. Will you marry me?"  
  
Silence hangs between them. The entire city seems to stand still, waiting for the answer. Roger can feel his heartbeat thumping in his chest.  
  
"Yes," says Rafa. "I marry you."  
  
Roger smiles, and he feels himself exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. "Good," he says, and he kisses Rafa again. "Good."  
  
That night, they make love slowly, tenderly, whispering to each other, and they fall asleep wrapped up in each others’ bodies. Rafa is, as usual, flung into crazy shapes, and Roger is curled around him.  
  
Roger wakes up when the sun hits his eyes, and he pulls the sheet up over his head for just a few more minutes in bed. He lies in the warmth left behind by Rafa, his breath a soft snuffle against the pillow, and every inhalation smells of Rafa’s skin. He hears feet padding on the floorboards, Spanish mutterings in the search for a towel, and then the soft hiss of water from the bathroom. Rafa sings in the shower.  
  
Only then does it occur to him that he will hear these sounds for the rest of his life. He pushes the sheet off his face and lies grinning in the sunlight until Rafa comes dripping from the bathroom, and Roger doesn’t care about the water, he pulls him back into bed.  
  


 

 **November 2008**  
  
Basel, Paris, Shanghai, these are the markers he counts until December. Tournaments are busy times, they will pass quickly. He will buy different parts of his suit in different cities; he knows that level of secrecy is unnecessary, but he enjoys it, he enjoys this secret thing he has. And it will not be secret for much longer.  
  
He keeps the ring in a box in a particular compartment of his luggage. Rafa has another just like it. Plain platinum bands, two intertwined Rs engraved on the inside.  
  


 

 **December 2008**  
  
It is Friday, and they are in Porto Cristo. Roger had arrived in Palma on Thursday. He slept briefly during the flight from Geneva; in the car en route to Manacor his was awake and fidgeting. He caught Mirka and Reto smiling indulgently at him and willed his fingers to stop tapping against the leather of the seat, willed his knees to stop jigging. As soon as he stopped concentrating they began again with no instruction from him, such was his impatience. The road seemed to stretch out forever to Manacor.  
  
And now it seems like a forever ago, the time before Rafa. Roger curls around him, one arm slung over his waist as he sleeps, and breathes into the back of his neck. Rafa’s chest rises and falls with the sea he can hear through the window. This island boy, his Rafa, who tomorrow will stand on the beach, despite the winter, and marry him. Roger smiles and presses closer, folding his legs around Rafa’s, cocooning them as one beneath the sheets. He counts down the breaths until tomorrow.

 

 

The morning spreads blue and yellow over the sea. It is still early when Roger opens his eyes, woken by Rafa turning in his arms, lying face to face in the gentle glow of daybreak.  
  
"Good morning," he whispers.  
  
A slow, sleepy smile spreads over Rafa’s face. "Buenos días," he replies, shifting closer to Roger on the bed.  
  
Roger tightens his grip around him. "We get married today," he says, placing the gentlest of kisses on Rafa’s mouth.  
  
Rafa squirms in his arms. "Sí," he says, his smile waking up more, his eyes no longer heavy with sleep. He pushes Roger onto his back and kisses him hotly, until his mouth once more melts into a smile. "I do, no?" he laughs. "This is what I gonna say when I marry you today."  
  
Roger laughs with him. "I hope so," he says, his hand splayed on Rafa’s chest.  
  
Rafa rolls out of bed, stretching when he stands, his arms reaching over his head. Roger lets his eyes linger on the shapes of his body, the masculinity that is almost too much, that seems incongruous with that boyish face still creased with laughter. A mess of contradictions that somehow come together perfectly, a spread of planes and curves and angles that all somehow meet in the right places and make up his Rafa. He sighs happily as he hears the toilet flush and the tap come on in the bathroom. It is nearly eight o’clock. He calculates the minutes till two in the afternoon. Far too many, he concludes.  
  


 

**Press Release, Monday 15th December 2008  
Announcing the marriage of Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal in Porto Cristo, Mallorca. **   
  
_Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal were married this weekend in a small, private ceremony in Porto Cristo, Mallorca, Spain. The ceremony was attended by close friends and family, and took place in the Nadal family home in the Mallorcan coastal resort.  
  
It has recently been revealed that the top two tennis players have been in a relationship for two years.  
  
The couple request privacy for themselves and their families as they briefly honeymoon during the December hiatus, before beginning training for the new season, which will begin for both players in Abu Dhabi on the 1st January 2009._   
  


It is not the wedding he would have imagined, were he prone to such imaginings. He might have thought of the church he and Rafa had visited during the Battle of the Surfaces, or some other great edifice, followed by a lavish celebration in a top hotel. Instead he finds himself standing on a Mallorcan beach, fires burning in terracotta stoves marking out a space on the sand, flowers that Ana Maria and Mirka have picked out, and just fifty white chairs ranged around the area, white ribbons tied to the backs and fluttering in the breeze. About thirty for Rafa's side, and twenty for his; his parents, his sister and her husband, Mirka, his team, old friends, and Reto, his groomsman. When it comes down to it, they are the only people he needs. Rafa has asked Feli and Nando, and it is strange to see their faces here, far away from any courts, wearing well cut suits and matching buttonholes. Rafa tells him in a low voice that they haven't brought dates. It strikes Roger that it is an important thing that is happening this day.

But he does not think of those repercussions now. Not today. Rafa is wearing a dark, loosely cut suit and soft shoes, and there is already sand scuffed into one of them. He is directing Toni and his wife to seats near the front, even though Rafa's sister is in charge of ushering. Rafa is grinning constantly. Roger keeps thumbing the ring in his pocket while Mirka fusses over his cravat. She tells him he is the only man she knows who would wear a cravat to get married on a beach. She looks up at him fondly and kisses him on the cheek. She has to wipe away the lipstick with her thumb.

"I'm so proud of you, Roger," she says. "So proud of both of you."

Roger smiles. "I didn't want to wait anymore," he says. "I didn't want other people deciding this anymore."

She nods. "I know," she says. "You're doing the right thing. The brave thing."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Look, this isn't altruism, you know?" he says, a sardonic edge to his smile.

She laughs, recognising her own words. "Well," she says, patting down his jacket, even though it is perfectly smooth. "I think it's a brave thing. I think it's great."

Roger takes her fussing hands in his own and stills them. "Thank you," he says. "For everything."

"Roger," she says, looking away, embarrassed. "You don’t have to—"

"I mean it," he says. "Thank you."

She looks up at him. "You're welcome," she says. He kisses her on the cheek, and she smiles at him, her cheeks dimpling. "I think it's time."

Roger glances around and finds Rafa standing close by. "I guess it is," he says, as Mirka lets go of his hands and Rafa offers his instead.

"Vamos," says Rafa, leading Roger out in front of the chairs, near to a display of flowers set up on the sand.

There is an unreality to the occasion, as if Roger had not expected this to actually come about, as impatient as he had been. He stands silent for a moment with his back to the gathered crowd, feeling the breeze rolling in from the sea, smelling the crackling fires in the terracotta pots, shoes sinking gently into soft sand, and he realises that the time has come, he is here, and about to do this. He feels calm, all of a sudden, filled with the calm of certainty. Rafa gently tugs on his hand and he turns to face him. His eyes reflect the same calm, the same certainty.

The minister coughs gently, and the congregation becomes silent. Roger nods at him to begin.

 

 

**BBC Website  
Monday 15th December 2008**  
  
 _Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal were married in an unexpected ceremony in Porto Cristo, Mallorca, this weekend.  
  
"It was the right time for Rafa," said Benito Perez Barbadillo, Nadal’s PR agent, in a telephone interview on Monday morning. "He and Roger have been together a long time and, though he is young, he is wise beyond his years because of the life he has lived, growing up early on the tour and dealing with the pressures of fame at a very young age. He has his family’s full support and everyone is very happy for him and Roger."  
  
Roger Federer is currently ranked No. 2, since Nadal ousted him from the top spot on 18th August this year, just after Nadal’s gold medal win in the Beijing Olympics and Federer’s gold medal in the doubles. Reports suggest that it was in October, prior to the beginning of the Mutua Madrileña Masters Tournament in Madrid, that the pair decided on marriage.  
  
Their current whereabouts is unknown as they honeymoon before returning to practise for the upcoming 2009 tennis year.  
  
Same sex marriage has been legal in Spain since 2005. Federer and Nadal’s marriage will be recognised as a civil union in Federer’s home country, Switzerland._  
  


 

The paparazzi don't find them. Roger has to take his own photos of Rafa's bare buttocks on the deck of the yacht they've rented, anchored a little way off the coast of Alexandria.  
  


 

 **Australian Open Tennis Championships  
22nd January 2009  
  
INTERVIEW WITH ANDY RODDICK – 2nd ROUND (def. J. Tipsarevic)  
Melbourne, Australia  
  
Q: ** What do you think of the marriage of Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal over the hiatus?  
  
 **ANDY RODDICK:** What do I think of it? I think… well, I kind of want to know why I wasn’t invited. I would have brought a good gift. (laughing) I like to party on the beach.  
  
 **Q:** I mean, how do you think it will affect their tennis?  
  
 **ANDY RODDICK:** They’ve been together for what, two years or something? I haven’t noticed it affecting their tennis so far. If you guys have, tell me when.  
  
 **Q:** So you think they can have that kind of relationship and still want to beat each other on court?  
  
 **ANDY RODDICK:** Apparently.


End file.
